Vol. 20 - The Merm: Mac Davis and Hair, Thick, Beautiful Hair

A return to form: Dolf and Holiday examine a particular grooming trend and its effect on art, sexual politics, and Soft Rock iconography. It's all about the music, sure, but as the earlier Soft Rock taxonomy illustrated quite clearly (See Volumes 10 and 11 of this blog from March and April of this year if you have not yet read them!), it is also about so much more.  Pardon the editorial, but I tend to agree with Holiday and Dolf.  I find our society's preoccupation with becoming hairless a little creepy and oddly related to our youth obsession.  If body hair is a sign of sexual maturity, then what are all these shaved privates really trying to convey?  Scary.  One other side note: kudos to Mac for managing to get the words girl, woman, and child all into the same sentence!!!  Read on, man. -ed.

Dolf begins:

Kevin:

You know, there was a time when chest hair was desirable. A thick coat of coarse hair signified more than just a hormonal imbalance. It conveyed sexual maturity and, dammit, it was just sexy. Sweaty. Coveted. Exposed. Women ran their fingers (and toes!) through it much like stroking a fine mink coat. What happened in the many ensuing years?  I think of one Scott Mac Davis. A superstar of film, television and music, possessing rugged good looks and outstanding hair features. Davis played a huge role in my young life, as you are aware. My father, for a time, emulated the same shaggy locks.  



The Merm or Man Perm (and a lot of denim)

Yes, he sported the Merm, or Man Perm to lay people. Davis was blessed with this iconic shag, while others strove for its power. Like many others, Dad ultimately fell short. His perm maintenance grew tiresome and a sad lack of chest hair hurt the overall execution. Having a wife, three kids, and a Merm proved too much.  I can’t fault him for trying.  In this “gelded” age of less is more (at least concerning personal grooming), I feel we must uphold the natural beauty of what God has blessed us with. Hair, thick beautiful hair. Whether it's on your scalp, chest, back, or “hang low”---let it be. For winter bushes stay green year ‘round.   A tree can still grow in Brooklyn.

Holiday replies:

Dolf, man, Dolf:

Do I have a tale for you!   As if summoned by that charming, knowing smile, I recently was compelled to thumb through my vinyl collection for the Mac Davis classic, Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me.  What a man!  Is that a perm?  Or Samson’s own coif sent to empower the future?  Mac was a triple threat: grooming, acting and singing. 

The triple threat: grooming, acting, singing.

 I mean, could a lesser man carry that much denim and turquoise jewelry?  Could any of today’s ladies—who are so conditioned to like hairless (Less is more?  Pshaw!)skinny boys—handle that much chest hair and machismo?  What a man!  I remember getting funny feelings as a youth when I watched his short-lived variety show.  Susan Anton couldn’t even move me like Mac (although the young Pointer girls certainly had an effect [Yes, those sisters.  Actual regulars on the show! – ed.]).  No wonder so many men like your dear father took this ill-advised (for many), labor-intensive path.  How many fires of midnight-crazy passion were ignited by hair spray and relaxers?  How many failed attempts, ending with a Bruce Villanch-like post perm whimper?  But the risks are worth it.  However fleeting his flirtation with follicle fame, Adolfo senior did quite well for himself, no?  Did he not manage to land and keep your lovely mother, e il suo grande petto italiano?

Let me relay a little Mac Davis-inspired social experiment I undertook about a year ago.   On a lazy morning not long after listening to one of Mac’s classic albums, a day when my wife and son were visiting with out-of-town friends, finding myself bored yet somehow inspired, I decided to assume the signature look of our Mr. Davis and parade said look through the streets of my suburban hamlet.  One call to the local hair salon saw me on my way.  Mildred, the octogenarian proprietor of Mildred Hairstylist, had me in the chair reading Cosmo within the hour (not to mention turning me on to some primo tea).  Imagine my face as I first gazed upon my new hair!  I had added some blond highlights at the urging of Gladys, one of Mildred’s regulars, and I did not regret that decision, I tell you!  Although, I must admit, Gladys, who was already smitten with me, became even more enamoured, and she wasn't too keen on me going anywhere too soon.  Mac's lyrics were running through my mind as I settled the bill and tried to make my exit:

Girl you're a hot blooded woman child
And it's warm where you're touching me
But I can tell by your trembling smile
You're seeing way too much in me...

...Baby, baby don't get hooked on me
'Cause I'll just use you then I'll set you free
Baby, baby don't get hooked on me

After refusing another cup of tea, it took some extensive, albeit gentle and tactful, pleading with Gladys and repeated reassurances that I would soon return in order for me to leave the confines of Mildred's salon. 

Finally out on the street I realized I needed a new wardrobe to compliment my look.  Do you know that people actually donate superior clothing, duds still riding the crest of forward fashion, to the Salvation Army??  If our compatriots only shopped here and not the mall, our entire Soft Rock revolutionary army would be battle-ready for pennies on the dollar.  At any rate, as I stood at the racks and paged through the history of denim washes, I paused briefly at a crisp, unwashed ensemble but then soldiered on to another decade, finding at last the perfect blue jean jacket and matching hip huggers.  Shoes?  No.  Barefoot was my choice.  Shirt?  Nay.  I let my own chest hair, also highlighted by Mildred (with Gladys’ smiling consent) so carpet matched drapes, burst from between my unbuttoned Levi lapels.  I considered a perfectly sun-faded floppy hat for a moment before remembering the 100 or so dollars plus tip that that I had just dropped on my luscious head of hair!

An epic, pheromone-rich puff:
Another icon showing how it's done

Out onto the streets I again strutted, no expectations but ready for anything.  I am not one prone to cat calls and find that behavior in the proletariat degrading to the softer sex, but I had certainly been known to whistle approval at a fine specimen in my younger years, thinking it mere appreciation.  Imagine my surprise when my look elicited like calls from a group of ladies dining al fresco at the Subway!   I felt like a hirsute, hair-helmeted piece of prime rib!  My experiment was too good to be true.  This was no “stupid human trick.”  I was truly like Velcro!   People of all kinds were quickly stuck on me.

Moving on from the sub shop, I got my first of many direct propositions from a young man at the Starbucks who mistook my look as an invitation for chaps of his persuasion.  Imagine!  Closer to home, an attractive neighbor who rarely speaks to me, invited me for a swim in her pool (I had to decline.  Again, I just spent 125 dollars on my hair!).  What a life Mac must have led.  If your dad had but a fraction of the experience I was having that day, I can’t believe he abandoned the Merm at such a young age.  What a day!  But by mid-afternoon, the world began to blur.  My chest was sun-burned.  It pained me to walk due to the chaffing from my snug denim trousers.  Before blacking out, I recall an admirably-mustached police officer dropping me home.  In fact, I think he kept my jacket!

As I slept that evening, coming off the high from whatever Mildred and Gladys had slipped into my tea, my wife must have attached the Flowbee and switched on the vacuum.  In her defense, she was also kind enough to ice my swollen feet.  When I awoke the next morning, I looked more like Sir Patrick Stewart than our Mac!  Perhaps it was all a dream?  One I will never forget, though.

Dolf provides this coda:

Oh, Kevin:

I know those funny feelings that rose deep within you. For I surely feel the same way each time I watch replays of Smokey and the Bandit on late night television. Mac and Burt [Reynolds – ed.] personify all that was right about being a man. Today’s depilation-crazed youth with their gelled spikes, manicured eyebrows, chinstrap beards, and waxed chests could never understand. When you are hanging six in excess of an epic, pheromone-rich puff of pubic hair, women swoon and other men aspire. I truly enjoyed hearing of your social experiment and regret that, due to my busy schedule and the relevant decency laws, I could not have joined you during my own early-90s grooming tests.  They were no dream, I tell you.  I have the pictures, which I will share.  Until we write again, adieu…

Vol 19. When You Get Caught: Christopher Cross, Sailing, and Finding the One

I have spent many late nights digging through piles of paper, but I have located a missing piece in the previous questions raised by Adolfo's last message to Halliday.  I needed to find this.  I felt terrible for leaving the Manifesto in a state of confusion.  Questioning Dolf and Holiday's commitment in word and action to the mission made me question my own mission here.  Thankfully, it appears that Adolfo has found his way back to central New Jersey from wherever he had gone, assisted in no small measure by one of their Soft Rock heroes.  Holiday, of course, happily welcomes him back and further expands on the gifts of Christopher Cross.  Enjoy! - ed.




Artifacts from Dolf's blue period

 Dear Kevin:

I am blessed (As you know, for that is what probably got me into this mess!!) but more blessed than I could have ever hope for.  Even though I have been through a rough time in my life, I realized today that I am truly happy.   Mr. Christopher Cross has always been a poet of truth, and he’s spoken nothing more truly than when he said, “Oh, the canvas can do miracles.”  Unemployed and living in the trailer, but slowly patching things up with wife and family.  I have even had several job interviews.  Yes, I wore a belt and a noose of brilliant paisley around my neck for a few short hours!  But today, dressed in my powder blue Sperry and matching boat shoes, I went sailing with my father!  Oh, how Christopher sings the truth.  “It’s not far back to sanity, at least it’s not for me/ and if the wind is right, we can sail away and find serenity.”

As we cut through the inlet, fear and exhilaration coursed through my veins.  Birds dived and fish gorged on fleeing baitfish.   The cycle of life played out before us.  If we had our fishing poles, we would surely have cast into the melee and supped that evening on nature’s bounty.  The seas and my ensemble were equally sporty, I tell you.  I was alive!!

Sporty wheels for an equally sporty chap.

But it was the return trip, entering my home port again.  Seeing that familiar lighthouse beckoning me home.  Tying ropes to dock, battening, fastening, securing.  I realized my place was home.

Embracing my dear father, admiring his denim leisure suit, I mounted my 1956 Mars Monza and headed for the Garden State Parkway.   I write you now from the garage, where I am tuning the Maybach boxer twin while my little Aubrey plays house at my feet.  I hope Gwen let’s me sleep inside tonight…

Holiday replies:

Welcome back, dear friend!  I thought we’d lost you!  Chris knows his stuff, I tell you: 

It's not far to never-never land

No reason to pretend

And if the wind is right

You can find the joy of innocence again.

The winds have seemed to change for you.  All is right!  No longer caught between the moon and New York City, I dare say!!  Picturing you there with your little girl, tinkering with your beloved machine (talk about “a dream and the wind” carrying one to freedom!) brought a smile to my face and, strangely, a lump to my button-fly Ocean Pacific corduroy shorts.  I care not to dwell upon that, however.  Suffice it to say that I am happy for you and your family.  I wish you a speedy return to domestic bliss. 

Knowing first-hand the trials of sleeping in the tool shed, the garage, the study, the studio, I know your aching back is a constant reminder that to stray is to pay.  But consider “Arthur’s Theme” (which Chris co-wrote with that feathered and hair-sprayed messiah, Mr. Bacharach):

Once in your life you'll find her
Someone that turns your heart around
And next thing you know
You're closing down the town
Wake up and it's still with you
Even though you left her way across town
Wondering to yourself
Hey what've I found?

You have to remember what if feels like to find true love, I know it’s crazy but it’s true.  But when you get caught between a newer, tighter, shinier moon and good old central New Jersey, the best that you can do is fall in love. Again.  With your wife, I mean. Do send good old Gwen and little Aubrey my love.